October 26, 2012

Questions or Requests?

I am willing to take any questions people have. Also any poetry or short story requests people have. They are all welcomed!

September 8, 2012   2 notes

Finally…

I’m finally going to start my first philosophical writing, well legitimate one at least. I call it “A Doctrine of Uselessness” i have had the title solidified in my head for about a year now and am starting to determine the topics i want to cover. I’m excited to start this journey!

August 4, 2012   2 notes

Write Club

The first rule of Write Club is that no one gives a shit about your desk. Your desk has nothing to do with your writing. Hemingway wrote in cafes. Stephen King started out at a child’s desk that he could barely fit his gangly knees under. Grisham wrote on the subway on steno pads. Chee writes on trains in sleeper cars. Capote wrote in bed. Thomas Clayton Wolfe wrote on the top of a refrigerator.

Try finding pictures of this. With the exception of Capote (that flamboyant bastard) you won’t. That’s because these people were too busy writing to have their pictures taken.

The second rule of Write Club is that you don’t spend more time talking about writing than you spend writing. Of course writers are going to talk about writing, it’s inevitable. It’s such a lonely job, we are all just solitary creatures of expression howling for some form of validation. But every minute you spend talking about writing is a minute you are spending not writing. And some day - maybe today, maybe one day soon, maybe years from now - you are going to die. So now is the moment you ask: do you want to be remembered as someone who talked about his unfinished novel a lot, or do you want to be remembered as a writer?

The third rule of Write Club is that if you stop, go limp, tap out, and/or give up, based on criticism or laziness or the general inability to effectively manage your lifespan, the writing is over. You can call yourself a writer if you sit around talking about notes and outlines and drinking and reading and musing, but writers do one thing: write. All the time. Short stories. Screenplays. Blogs. Articles. Stageplays. Novels. Writing prompts. Novellas. Books. No matter how shitty your writing is, if you are writing, then you are a writer. If you are not writing, then you are not.

The fourth rule of Write Club is that there are only two guys to a story: you against yourself.

The fifth rule of Write Club: one story at a time. Finish it, beat it into submission or have your ass kicked by it, but do not start another story until your story is done.

Sixth rule of Write Club: Your tools don’t matter. Pens, pencils, typewriters, cats, writing books, influential novels, highlighters, napkins, index cards, binders, notebooks, Macbooks, laptops, desktops, iPads, iPhones, none of it is worth a flying blue fuck if you’re not actively writing on it.

Seventh rule: Submissions will go on as long as they have to. You can work on something for three hours or three years. But do not stop until you are finished with it, do not stop revising it until it is done, and do not stop sending it out (revised) until it is published. See the Fifth rule.

Eighth rule of Write Club - If this is your first night at Write Club, you have to write.

May 6, 2012   1 note

Day 2 The Modest Collection

Write a story that includes: a tombstone, a first kiss, and a butterfly collection…

           I need you so much…God I need you so fucking much… He raises from his knees and walks away from the tombstone, the epitaph briskly reads Jessica Singer, Loving Wife and Loyal Daughter. He saunters back to his car, drunk off beer and pregnant with sadness, the date is January 31. As he closes the door he looks over the grave once more, “Happy birthday honey, it’s our last one.” He drives off slowly. All the way back his car drifts to and fro on the road, it’s a Sunday morning so no one else is out. They all occupy the churches for most of the day. He pulls into his driveway without any problems and before getting out lets himself fall into tears.

            With in a few minutes he finally forces himself from the car and strolls into the house. The television is giving off the quaint sound of weekend morning cartoons. Every Saturday and Sunday for the past thirteen years his house was pervaded with the ramblings and shenanigans of the Looney Tunes. He sits down right where he usually would, on the floor in front of the Lay-Z-Boy, and stares blankly as Daffy shoots his bill to the back of his head. What would have made him burst into a hysteric laughter now only rings the room with silence.

*

            “Hey, get out here! They will start without you!” her beautiful voices giggles as Brian jogs out carefully into the living room wearing his pajama pants and tattered t-shirt and holding a plate of eggs and sausage.

            “I’m gettin’ there geeze, hold up!” she laughs as he sits down right when the opening theme begins to sound off. “Once again, I have to apologize for my appearance, when I joked about you showing up at 7 am for Sunday morning Looney Tunes I didn’t think you would actually do it… I mean I really had fun on our date last night and I don’t mind it’s just-”

            “Will you cram it!” she shouts jokingly, “They are starting and you’re gonna miss Wiley squash himself if you keep jabbering.”

            He looks at her with a joyous smile spreading across his face. She notices and before he can turn away she calls him out. “So I must be beautiful or something because you keep staring at me.”

            “Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t know you saw…” He voice trails off. Unexpectedly she jumps at him and lands a kiss right over his left eye. The next one hits the target.

            With a shocked grin on his face as she pulls back he mumbles, “I don’t think I have ever had a lovelier first kiss.

*

            As Bugs somehow tricks Daffy into calling himself a rabbit Brian reaches off to his right and grips his 22 pistol. As Elmer shoots a hole through Daffy’s stomach Brian lifts the pistol and gently places it between the top and bottom rows of his teeth.

            Full of both doubt and desire Brian’s eyes begin to scan the living room which he had grown to hate. Every corner is replete with memories that now only fill him with grief and every crack on the wall full of moments that drive him insane. As his eyes reach the center of the room he sees, on the coffee table, a small wooden box with a glass top. He has no need to look at what’s in it, he knows every object. In the top left a Clodius Parnassian, the top right a Mimosa Yellow and the bottom middle a Zebra Swallowtail. It was a small collection but they were her three favorite butterflies, eternally memorialized in a little glass case. At the sight of her modest Butterfly Collection the gun dropped out his mouth and he burst into tears. He fell to his side and watched Bugs and Daffy until he fell asleep on the living room floor that was full of nothing but great memories.

May 5, 2012   1 note

Day 1 New Apartment

Your character moves into a new apartment. On the surface, the place seemed ideal, but his/her first night there, your character discovers a terrible problem with the place that he/she didn’t take into account…

A deep sigh escapes. A deeper breath is drawn in. The new air inside his lungs helps to lift his spirits as he enters the new building. His parents bought it for him with out him even getting a chance to look at it…then, they kicked his ass out of the house. Now all he’s got is his car, which his parents bought, his luggage, which his parents have bought for him over the years, and a paid in full, in his name, no mortgage necessary, only needing to pay for the lights and gas, apartment. They got to buy it because his parents “know some people” on this side of town.

After three flights of stairs he finally reaches his new place, 4C. He walks in slowly, sets down the two bags he has with him and without even looking around heads back down to the front desk to get the rest of his shit. This happens three times, he doesn’t need to worry about furniture, his parents had his apartment decked out weeks before he knew they even got the place for him. With a close analysis of his bedroom for the past 20 years they got his style pretty spot on.

Read More

May 5, 2012

30 day challenge

So im starting a 30 day writing challenge, but i wont be everyday, just when i remember it… so prepare yourselves for imagery so fantastically vivid you will cry..twice…with in the 30 days, at some point.

February 15, 2012

“ So why bother?Why does any writer bother? Two major reasons are fear and hope: fear that you won’t get what you want except through writing; hope that you will get what you want, precisely through writing. ”

Jackson Jody Daviss

February 6, 2012   16 notes

Inspired by Albert Camus

The salt ridden air stings my lungs. She looks me in the eyes. I’m not quite sure which one hurts more. Something tells me the air does. The numbness I feel in my hands matches the numbness I feel in my head. I think this is the main fact that leads me to think the air hurts more than her stare. In fact the only thing I can feel right now is the burning in my chest from the cold sea air. She starts to look angry; it makes me remember that she wasn’t quite done talking to me yet. I didn’t interrupt her, I never interrupt her, but still she always gets angry when she thinks I’m not paying attention, I’m usually not paying attention. I quit paying attention when she gets angry and she gets angry when I stop paying attention, it’s a useless circle that just seems to leave her angry and me bored. It makes me wonder which one happened first, my boredom or her anger. This thought makes her slip from my concentration once again. I’m never quite sure how she knows when I’m not paying attention, I think I’m looking at her, maybe not. So I ask. Her response is a frustrated howl, “I’m standing here on this freezing fucking balcony trying to tell you about how I never feel like you actually give a shit about me anymore and all you can think to do is ask how I know when you’re not paying attention?” I chuckle at the irony that what I’m thinking about is exactly what she’s angry about and I had not even realized it. In the midst of her screaming I think I put together the words ‘it’s over’ it might have been ‘I’m colder’ or ‘how bolder’ but I just let it be whatever will get me off this balcony quickest. In the middle of her sentence I slowly turn and reach to the handle on the screen door. And make my way inside. She screams, “Where are you going?” I tell her I heard her say ‘it’s over’ so I’m going back into the warmth. “I said how much bolder can you be and than you do this!” Huh, it was bolder after all. I continue into the cabin, as I walk away she screams, “If you leave now it is over!” I don’t hesitate.I go from the balcony into the spare bedroom and back into the living room to sit by the fire to warm up my chest and hopefully get some feeling back into my hands. Our friend who owns the beach side cabin comes over to me, “Are you okay?” I tell him that my hands are a little numb and that’s all, he looks at me funny. Suddenly the thought pops into my head, this might have been a bad time for this to happen, I’ll be in this cabin with her for another three days, another three days of yelling… Luckily she leaves the next morning. I enjoy the rest of my time here, It’s quiet and the weather finally warms up a bit.

December 5, 2011   15 notes

Inspiration

I want to write a poem called “I imagined it” but am lacking some genuine inspiration.

Tell me something you imagined was the case, I could use the help.

Will you please?

November 24, 2011   10 notes

My Interpretation

They say “If you have a goal aim two inches further.” I think what they really mean is “If you have a goal aim two inches further…because you will never come to realize your goals, you will always fall short, but hey! You ended up where you originally wanted.” I say that this isn’t such a terrible thing…now I know that the idea of you never being able to realize your goals is a terrible thought but I have have to say that all you need to do is add one more little thought to that, “And don’t lose yourself.” Meaning that if you have that goal and you aim two inches further and only come to realize the original goal all you have to do is not get lost in an obsession with this new line you’ve drawn for yourself. Once can do this you will see that you reached the goal you have always wanted. So…in conclusion, “If you have a goal aim two inches further…because you will never reach your goals so at least you end up where you wanted to in the beginning, but don’t lose yourself to the thought of perfection and you’ll end up happier than you wanted in the first place.” I know its a long phrase but at least I feel it is more correct.